


The Persistence of Memory

by outofcertainty



Series: Through Symbolic Means [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, due to the events of S2E8 but just to be safe, this turned out a lot sadder than I thought it would I'll have to make up for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 06:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10483767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofcertainty/pseuds/outofcertainty
Summary: It isn’t remembering his past that troubles Magnus. It’s forgetting it.[In which Magnus' fears regarding Alec have to do with memory, not immortality.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> The show seems to portray Magnus as remembering his entire life pretty well, so this is an alternate interpretation of the character that I thought was worth exploring.
> 
> One more note at the end.

He can’t place the sound.

A gentle, cool breeze flows through the loft, playfully rustling the heavy curtains framing his balcony ever so slightly, roughly pushing at the wind chime on their way in, giving the resulting melody a sharp, unsettling quality.

Magnus looks up, catching sight of it immediately – a new addition, courtesy of his newest redecorating efforts, six cylinders of a light, silver metal with gold and purple accents. It had been a snap decision, purely something to match the new, soft, swirling patterns on the loveseat and the couch. He had barely given it any thought until he had heard it chime. It was a conjured item, brought into existence mere minutes ago, so he had never heard a sound exactly like it before. And yet…

And yet it had sounded so achingly _familiar_ that it had left him moored to the spot, fingers curling tightly against his glass. It had gone from a light chime to a terrible clamoring, less a gentle whispering and more the tolling of bells, loud and frantic, an omen of impending disaster wrapping its haunting fingers around his throat, leaving him unable to breathe. A trick of his own mind, of course.

Magnus closes his eyes and forces himself to exhale. Calmly, deeply, even as his magic flares inside of him at the instinctive panic. It burns in his chest, sparks under his skin, flashing to his fingertips in seconds with the ease of centuries of practice. He fights it with another kind of practice, mindful and slow, solid and unyielding. After a minute the urge subsides, giving way to even breathing, and he opens his eyes.

He had not lied when he had told Elias he had been alive before the Dead Sea had been given such an ominous name. He had not lied when he had mentioned Casanova or Freud or Michelangelo. He knows that the swiftness of his wit and charm are second only to that of his magic. Sometimes he wonders whether anyone has realized what these mentions – thrown in quickly and discarded just as quickly – actually _are_. Bragging, certainly, Magnus can’t help but do so when the opportunity presents itself, but mostly they are a distraction. It is inevitable: whenever his tongue wraps around the words, the names of people from his past, he’s gripped by the terrifying fear that someone will ask him not what he remembers about them, but what he’s already _forgotten_.

It is not something he’s ever actually been asked and Magnus suspects that no one has ever given it any proper thought. People are easily dazzled and distracted, be they mundane, Downworlders or Nephilim. His high tales of daring escapades and quirky anecdotes are usually enough to satisfy anyone's curiosity. It helps, he supposes, that he tends to mention the well-known who are, for most, two-dimensional. No one would ever think to ask what colors Darwin had picked for this curtains, for instance.

Magnus had known that, at some point. He had known the color of Darwin’s curtains and the way Mary Shelley stared at the fire in the late night hours. He had talked with the Seven Kings of Rome – which, honestly, was a rather deceiving misnomer – and laughed with Mark Twain about the frustrations of the German language. He had discussed naval strategy with Yi Sun-sin, debated the merits of art with Akbar the Great and had many a conversation with Tolstoy about pacifism and anarchism.

All of which would sound fantastical, he was sure, to anyone who did not think to ask him for personal details about them. It is not that Magnus hadn’t known them that well. He had, in the majority of cases. It is rather that he has forgotten more of it than he will willingly admit. His memory, his ability to recall past events, might be nothing short of extraordinary when compared to a mundane’s or a Shadowhunter’s, but Magnus has lived for _centuries_. Yes, he is quite able to recall the past fifty, sixty, seventy years perfectly, thank you very much. But the further back one goes…

His glass feels heavier, suddenly. He shifts his weight to the front of his feet and pivots around, catching a glimpse of the notebook Alexander has been carrying around for the past week, and the sight brings him up short. He’s rather bemused by the idea, but he hasn’t asked his Nephilim what exactly he’s been doing with it. Not yet. And although whatever makes Alexander grin and flush slightly while trying to hide it out of sight is most certainly worth his curiosity, he will not pry. He’s certain he’ll know in due time.

Nevertheless, he approaches the notebook, if only to stare at it. The thought of Alexander is both overwhelming and bittersweet, as it always is. They had yet to discuss his immortality again and he finds himself to be fine with the idea of focusing on what they have at the moment. It is an issue, glaring and heart-wrenching, but one Magnus is… familiar with, if not used to. That particular problem had been brought to his attention quite often throughout his life. For all that people ask him about it, however, it seems rather ironic that they seem to miss the deepest part of the tragedy. They are quite willing to sympathize with the fact that he has watched the people he loved grow old and die.  They are quite willing to admit that the grief will most likely never go away, even if it abates. Sometimes, some of them are even quite sympathetic about it. But they do not understand.

Magnus does not lose them once. He loses them once, when they die. And then he loses them again and again and _again_.  Small parts at first: pieces of conversations he can’t quite recall anymore, the way their footsteps sounded, if they bothered to right their chairs after they stood up. And then bigger things: how long they liked to sleep for, what their favorite song was, what aggravated them or brought them joy, how tall they were, what color their eyes were, their face, and, eventually, their _name_.  He did not lose someone once. He lost them time and again. Every single one of them, dying a little more each day until he was unable to recall them.

The wind chime jingles again, immediately causing him to look back at it, over his shoulder. He has the vague feeling he has heard something so very, very similar, so very, very long ago. He can’t recall it. He thinks back, desperately, trying to place it – or something, anything, similar to it. He can’t. He can’t recall it and he can’t regain memories he no longer has access too. They’re not there anymore. They weren’t taken away by another warlock, they weren’t given to any memory demon, they were simply… naturally… gone.

Two days ago, while passing by the Institute to check on the wards – again, there was no pleasing the Clave – he had overheard Alexander and Isabelle talking. About their childhood, which was rare enough that he pretended to be busy as to not interrupt them. It hadn’t been anything particularly serious. They had both been trying to recall the name of another Shadowhunter-in-training back in Idris, a little troublemakers by the sounds of it, someone they hadn’t seen in over a decade. They had given up eventually and moved on. Magnus had breathed in, out, and firmly ignored the way his hands were shaking.

It was terrible enough not to remember the name of someone who left a mark on you, whom you could clearly recall from times past. But to not remember the name of the people actually _important_ to you – that is, Magnus thinks, the biggest curse of being a warlock. They pass away and you remember them, very vividly for a while. For decades. But, eventually, inevitably, you start to forget. A day goes by without thinking of them. A week. A month. A year. A _decade_. He does not remember the first time he had that realization, but it still happens and the horror and guilt he feels never quite lessens.

When Alec had told him about his engagement to Lydia most of him had been heartbroken, yes, but a small part of him had been relived. Not because he was immortal while Alec wasn’t, no. He never had any illusions about that. Although he knew he would never be ready to let go of Alexander – his beautiful, stubborn, honorable, occasionally aggravating, sweet, _brave_ Alexander –, suffering through his loss was something Magnus would gladly do, if it meant spending whatever years they had together. Perhaps fate would be kind to them and offer them some sort of solution, but if not, Magnus would never regret it. No, what he had been terribly afraid of, what he was still terribly afraid of, was _forgetting._

Magnus does not remember his first lover. No face, no words, no name. He remembers _remembering_ , in centuries past, and his heart hurts all the worse for that echo, that farce of a memory. How cruel it was, to remember having remembered, but not the memory itself, not the person. How cruel it was, to remember the mourning, the grief, the longing, but not their name. It had happened so many times: the hourglass of their mortality breaks and he tries to catch the sand with his fingers, to keep some remnant of them safe, but he cannot fight against the wind and there is no more sand to replace the one that has already been lost.

The mere thought of it leaves him petrified. He cannot help but to wonder if it will happen again. Or, rather, _when_ and the specter of inevitability hangs over his head, like a sword hanging above a crown. Dealing with Alexander’s death might be something he is willing – albeit never ready – to deal with, but losing him entirely? To not be able to remember the way his brow furrows when he isn’t particularly amused at something, the way he rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, the way he stands tall and subconsciously straightens his shoulder when facing up to his own people, the way he grins, lopsided and honest, the way he stumbled over his words, the confidence he’s gaining every single day, the small intake of breath right before he kisses Magnus, the way his hair looks wilder and even more unruly against the sheets-

Magnus glances at his drink for a moment, then downs all of it at once. Barely taking notice of the burn, he places the glass down on the arm of the couch and makes his way over to the balcony. There is no way he can think of to preserve those memories while still having access to them. Would it be worth it to stow them away? To hide them somewhere, to keep them safe for eternity even if he has to abdicate them? Would it be worth it to be with Alec at all, when all that awaits Magnus by the end is himself, utterly alone, with not even memories of love and warmth for company?

Cat-like eyes blink, scanning the balcony. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Until a few weeks ago, he had thought there was nothing in any of the worlds more terrifying than forgetting, nothing more terrifying than time and the flaws of a still partially human mind… but he had been proven wrong. Watching Alexander on that ledge, willing to jump, a second away from cutting their time far too short, far too soon… _that_ had proven him wrong.

There will be a day when he will no longer remember Alexander and he fully believes that part of him will die when that day comes. But the thought of _not_ having Alexander, at least for a few more decades, is more terrifying than the inevitability of forgetting ever was. So he will take another step, and another, and another, knowing fully well what awaits him at the end. And he will not regret a single second of their time together, even if there comes a day where he cannot recall it anymore.

In this moment, they are together and they are happy. If he has anything to say about it, they will be happy for the rest of Alexander’s life. One of them will not forget. One of them will grow and live and die full to the brim with memories of their lives together. One of them will _remember_. And that, Magnus thinks, is worth everything yet to come.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wasn't planning on making these things into a series but I had an idea for a third drabble about these two, tying both of their respective fics together. It will be a lot more hopeful than this one and probably happier too. 
> 
> If you've read the other one, you might have an idea as to what they'll discuss and what 'solution' they'll come to.
> 
> I'll re-read this tomorrow and fix any typos I find. As always, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
